Post by Dominator / Mortimer on May 20, 2019 20:23:22 GMT -5
Friday 17th May 2019 - 07.18am
Location: Unknown
It was through Dolores’ own initiative that she had encouraged Matthew and Marx to assist her in spite of their recent ‘demotions.’ No longer were they known as Watchmen. Now, they were nothing more than regular members of The Chronological Order; hosting recruitment drives and spreading the word. Albeit, they were still highly respected within the temporal community, yet the duo shared the same sense of demoralisation as a result of Horacio’s scorn.
While their fervour was admirable during the mission’s infancy, it had gradually waned with every passing gripe from their hostess. Her cheerful demeanour had been replaced with one far denoting heightened levels of seriousness.
It is hard to say for precisely how long, or indeed how far their tired legs have carried them, yet the trio that traverse through the woodland come to a stop amidst a clearing in the trees to regain their bearings. Their greatest hindrance by far is the early morning fog; synonymous with their destination. It acts as the visually obstructive barrier of cloud that hides a storm’s eye; relentlessly swirling to disorientate those who approach it.
Try as he might, Marcus Marx’ attempts to navigate the map in his hands are utterly futile. He contorts his arms to twist the gargantuan sheet of paper at a ninety degree angle in an attempt to obtain a newfound perspective, as if this may somehow aid in locating precisely where amongst the landmass they have lost themselves in; a nigh on impossible task. Matthew Metallinos pivots on the spot, survery his surroundings as best he can. Even the canopy is masked by the thickness of the low cloud. Her patience wearing thin, Dolores Aurelian hurriedly shuffles through a deck of Tarot cards.
“Are you sure we are going the right way?” Dolores huffs as her eyes catch sight of a moss-laden oak as old as the forest itself. Her grievances are birthed from impatience and frustration, the parental emotions are evident in her voice. “I could have sworn we passed that old oak tree two hours ago.”
“We’ve already told you,” comes the beginning of Marx’ excuse. “We don’t know how we found the place last time. We just seemed to stumble across it through sheer dumb luck and nothing more.”
“Dumb being the key word,” Dolores turns away to mutter her insult at a volume that she deems quiet enough for her companions to mishear. As she looks back, she finds herself subjected to an extreme close-up from the camera that is held in the hands of Matthew; the reason that he had been slowly pirouetting like a meal in a microwave only moments prior. “And get that camcorder out of my face,” she swats the recording device as if it were a bothersome housefly, “you’re supposed to be filming the path we take, not me!”
“I don’t see how this will serve a future purpose,” the man formerly known as Blade frowns uncertainly as he lowers the camcorder to point at the dirt trail that they are obligated to follow. “If Hangtown is not limited to one particular place, then even if we do manage to find it somehow, the same path won’t necessarily bring us back to Hangtown if we come this way again.” The validity of Matthew’s proclamation earns yet other wearisome groan from Dolores.
“Unless I decide to resign myself and relocate to Hangtown on a permanent basis, I need at least some way of making it back here, should I have a need to,” Dolores justifies her tactics, no matter how feeble it may be in hindsight. “I am well aware that Hangtown only reveals itself to those that is deems worthy. It is as if the very town is somehow sentient. However, we do have a legitimate reason to be there; to find Dominic.”
“Then why am I even bothering with this?” Matthew exhales heavily, the fatigue of travelling such a distance starting to affect his own mental endurance. He looks at the camcorder’s screen. “We have less than ten percent of battery power remaining. I might as well turn it off.” With a simple click of a button, the numbers and symbols of the camera’s LED screen blinks out of existence. “This whole trip is a waste of time. If Dominic is so content here, why are we trying to coax him away? If he’s happy, I say we just let him be.”
“The whole reason you joined The Chronological Order was so you could help Dominic, remember?” Dolores says assertively, reminding him of his purpose in the most forceful way possible without getting physical. “If you truly cared about your friend’s happiness, you would realise that he does not belong in Hangtown. Those bonds of friendship that have kept you so close for all these years will dissolve. Why? Because Hangtown is a toxic place, figuratively speaking. Do you really want years of friendship to come undone because of a brash decision that he has made while it can still be undone?” Matthew is stupefied into silence. The emotional manipulation is eerily similar to that of The Zenith.
Matthew would only be deceiving himself if he were to believe that Dominic had not played him as a pawn in the past, but no more so than how Dolores and Horacio had used him in their own game. Matthew too shared these traits, but he had since learned to enjoy life and make every second count, such is the way of The Chronological Order. He had forgiven Dominic for his past transgressions, as he hoped Dominic had done for him.
From what little time Matthew and, indeed, Marx had shared with Dolores, they had come to the same conclusion; that she was a highly dependable calculating and cerebral individual, not one to act out on impulse alone. The scale of how this had changed from the cheerful and indeed whimsical nature that she had exhibited upon their first meeting is on a level that titillates schizophrenia.
His silence acting as submission, Dolores snarling face is appeased. With a deep breath, it morphs into that jubilant smile that she is best known for. Marx too remains quiet, opting not to add any fuel to Dolores’ fire. She elevates her hand. The backs of her Tarot Cards face her. She picks two in quick succession, returning the unselected cards in her deck back to the recesses of her inside pocket. Turning the two remaining cards to face her, she lets out a satisfied chuckle.
The chuckle grows into something more hysterical, yet not in an ominous sense.
“The Knight of Swords and Death,” she squeals. Matthew and Marx’ horrified reactions immediate catch Dolores’ attention. Perturbed by Dolores’ joy at such a harrowing sounding conclusion, Dolores feels the need to justify the cards’ meaning. “Don’t look so worried,” she beams, a stark contrast from the sternness in her voice mere moments ago. “The Knight of Swords represents the pursuit of goals. Death signifies the end of something. That tells me that our journey is almost at an end.”
As if the cards themselves possess ungodly magic, the fog slowly begins to lift. Dolores looks around the clearing. Rather than continuing along the same straight and narrow path that they’d been traversing for what feels like days, she notices a less distinguishable path. She gravitates towards it almost uncontrollably.
“Wait,” Marx calls, trying to consult the map one last time. “Where you going?”
“This way,” Dolores calls. It is uncertain as to whether this was an answer to Marx’ question or an instruction for them to follow. Either scenario yields the same result. Upon exchanging dubious glances towards one another, they give chase to Dolores through a belt of trees, brushing aside branches and foliage as they manoeuvre off the beaten path. Given their fatigue, they struggle to keep up with Dolores’ optimistic pace.
So abruptly does she stop, Marx and Matthew almost clatter into the back of her, only able to bring themselves to a stop mere inches from where she stands. The fog has lifted ever so slightly, revealing to them the outlines of a series of wooden structures. Ravens spy on the trio that have invaded their territory, cawing at them from above. A bell tolls from afar, yet it sends a chill so far down their spines that it might as well ring right up against their ears. Then, all of a sudden, carnage ensues. A loud CHOP echoes through the area, startling the ravens above into a frenzy. The sudden flaps of hundreds of wings cause Matthew and Marx to flinch, though it does not garner such a severe reaction for Dolores. She finds Marx’ cowering amusing more so than Matthew’s.
“And to think they called you ‘The Birdman,’” Dolores chuckles, though her amusement is dissipated as she looks up at the spectacle taking place over her head; dozen upon dozen of black wings shoot over them like arrows, disappearing into the sky. Another impact is heard. Then another. And then another. Finally, the sound of wood splintering and cracking as it’s structural integrity is compromised fills the air. The rush of leaves distorts the air before a surprisingly soft thud signals the end of this symphony.
Stood on a mound near a series of Quaking Aspen trees, their autumnal coloration blending in well in such an environment even in the height of spring, a towering figure can be seen swinging what appears to be a long-handled axe downward towards the felled tree. The trio approach cautiously. In spite of their acquaintanceship, it is uncertain what kind of mindset The Zenith might currently possess. This is a man who desecrated the grave of his deceased lover out of sheer rage. With an axe in his hand, he would be capable of destroying more than mere engraved marble.
“Dominic!” Matthew calls at the same time as the axe delivers another severing blow to the trunk of the tree. Dolores quickly steps between Matthew and Dominic, not that The Zenith had paid any attention to anything other than the task that occupies him.
“Shush,” Dolores flaps her hands to silence Matthew. “We don’t want to get his attention yet.”
“Why not?” Marx protests. “We’ve travelled all this way and…”
“If you give me a fucking minute, I’ll explain,” Dolores snaps subtly. Marx recoils. Turning back to Matthew, Dolores reaches for the camcorder that Matthew has carried in his hand all this time. “Keep that camera rolling for as long as you can, but be discreet! Especially if The Dillingers turn up. I am going to head deeper into Hangtown and see what I can find. You keep Dominic at bay by trying to get him to come home. I don’t care how. Make light conversation.” She looks back to Marx. “Marx,” she immediately gets The Birdman’s attention. He stands rigidly. There is something about her demeanour that has virtually petrified him. “You’re with me.”
Utilising more stealth than perhaps is necessary, Dolores and Marx begin to distance themselves from Dominic, walking around him in a large circle so that his outline is only just visible through the remaining fog. By that logic, they too should be hidden from his sight. Matthew, meanwhile, delicately wedges the camcorder under his armpit, weaving it so that it can view his surroundings through an open button in his shirt and zipping up his jacket so that the zipper rests at the base of the lens, acting as a support. He would be able to quickly zip up his jacket if a need should arise.
“Dominic?” Matthew attempts to obtain his friend’s attention, approaching gradually and guardedly . The Zenith glances upwards, momentarily stunned by who he sees. He lets out the slightest of grins, evidently impressed that Matthew was capable of such a feat as tracking him down in such a remote dwelling.
“Good to see you, Matt,” The Zenith greets. Something is off about him. His voice is monotonous; robotic to a degree. Matthew slowly takes a couple of steps forwards. “I assume Dolores and Marx weren’t so keen on giving me the same greeting as you,” he announces. Matthew had not realised that they had been seen. It was somewhat inevitable; they’d been stood out in the open for several minutes. It was ludicrous to think that Dominic would not have seen them, even with the fog. “Not that I’m overly concerned,” he continues. “Out of everybody in The Chronological Order, you are the only person that has not straight up lied to my face.”
“Come on, Dominic,” Matthew shakes off such praise. “We’re best friends! I know we haven’t always made the best choices in life, but no matter what, we’ve always pulled through. Right?” Dominic answers by picking up some of the newly formed logs that he had chopped and tosses them onto a heap at his side.
“There is no such thing as a wrong decision,” Dominic rebuts. “There is a learning curve to every misdirection, one that would not be realised without experiencing oppression first hand. Of course, some directions lead to an outcome that is has little left to be desired. But that is not to say that we do not learn from them.” Matthew tilts his head incredulously. The cryptic nature of Dominic’s statement raises some concern in Matthew’s eyes.
“Are you alright?” Matthew worriedly asks.
“Of course,” Dominic replies with equal ennui as before.
“Why are you out here chopping wood?”
“Do you know what is special about this particular specie of tree?” Dominic grunts as he heaves the axe behind him and swings it ferociously into the trunk. “You might think that these are all individual trees, each stemming from different roots that stretch far underground, vying for the best positions within the soil. But the Quaking Aspen is actually just one single organism. Dozens, sometimes hundreds, sometimes thousands of trees are all connected by one single root.”
“Really?” Matthew blurts out, completely perplexed by what he is hearing.
“We all lead different lives,” Dominic states, “and even though it may seem that we were all born from the seed provided from our fathers, the truth is, we all share the same father; Father Time.” He raises himself from his kneeling position and sets himself up to one side of a freestanding tree. He takes a few steps back, taking a couple of deep breaths before staring venomously at the tree as if it had done him wrong by purely existing. With a full head of steam, he charges shoulder first into the trunk. Immediately, the wood shatters at the point of impact. Dominic spins around to the opposite side, reaching up with his two gargantuan hands and, quite literally, rips the tree downwards. It impacts the grassy mound with a slightly heavier thud than before. “But of course,” he pants, “even though humanity shares the same father, there are still some bastards out there that need cutting back down to size.”
The alleged reasoning behind the coalition between “The Bastard” Holden Ross and David Hunter stems from their shared desire to prise the Underground Title away from Sicko. This petty vindictiveness has reached the point where it has transcended beyond embarrassing. The division that The Zenith once ruled with an iron fist is now consumed by nothing more than a cavalcade of ineptitude. It is only fitting that David Hunter and Holden Ross both call such a place home.
Despite whatever malevolent intentions the twosome have for the Underground division, Holden Ross finds himself in unfamiliar territory. Perhaps it has never been conceivable to him that he would ever find himself with an opportunity to win an even greater prize than the one that he has genuinely set his sights upon.
Is there anything quite so dangerous as a man with a point to prove? Holden has plenty. The fact of the matter is this; this will be the most important match of Holden Ross’ career. And it is only fair to confirm that it is The Zenith has so much more to lose; a place in the Icemann Invitational Tournament Semi-Finals, the championship that he had toiled to prise from Stormm’s unrelenting grasp, as well as every shred of pride in his soul.
And it is because of these stakes, combined with The Temporal King’s unbridled wrath, that Holden Ross shall come to realise just how out of his depth he will find himself. The outcome of this contest will be the definitive rationalization of why Holden has relegated himself to Underground purgatory; home to the Crazy Boys, the Razor Blades, the Cory Steels, the Tyler Scotts. A current affinity with such names that have lost almost all credibility in this era dominated by titans of industry only serves to display just how far beneath Holden Ross is. Even if Holden Ross is someday able to capture the title of Underground King, he will never be able to hold a candle to The Temporal King.
This is the point that The Zenith will prove. He will advance to the semi-finals of the Icey Invitational Tournament for the second year in a row. He will remain the rightful North American Champion. And he will keep the whole of his dignity intact.
The Zenith had dismantled Holden Ross and David Hunter as a unit. Now, he would pick them apart one at a time.
Matthew had stood in silence whilst Dominic had continued to chop wood, mesmerised by his machine-like technique. He noticed the sheer physical exertion displayed by The Suzerain of Time. The exercise uses several muscle groups in the body, while the effort produces endorphins and adrenaline. All the while, it satisfies an atavistic itch. It would keep him warm twice; once during the day when the wood is being brought to the ground and once during the night in front of a roaring fire.
“I’m assuming it would be a waste of my time to ask if you are coming back with us?” Matthew says with an absence of hope in his voice.
“You would be right to assume that,” Dominic smirks as he tosses another log onto the pile before standing up and wiping his brow with his forearm. “Is that the only reason why you’ve come here? To do Horacio’s bidding?”
“Actually, Dolores assigned me here. I thought you knew that The Watchmen had been disbanded.” Dominic pauses for a moment, running his hand through his beard as he contemplates the ramifications of such an act on Horacio’s part.
“Dolores assigned you?” The Zenith parrots. Matthew merely replies with a nod. He takes a couple of steps towards Matt, peering over his shoulder to see who might be nearby. “Listen,” he begins with hushed tones. “I want you to be vigilant around her. There’s something about her that gets my back up.”
“She was the first Watchman, she‘s completely devoted to The Order,” Matthew replies. “Not to mention that she is in an intimate relationship with Horacio. Why would she jeopardise all of that? What does she have to gain?”
“I don’t know what she could be plotting, but she is more than competent. After all, she portrayed herself as Amy’s sister to me,” Dominic answers with a snarl upon such remembrance. “If she is capable of that level of deceit, who knows what else she might be capable of? She’s one of the few people who have Horacio wrapped around their little finger. Frankly, I don’t trust her. Even Marx hid the fact that he was Amy’s brother and, even though that happened so long ago, I still don’t actually have any definitive proof that this is true. All I’ve got to go on is Horacio’s word, which, in my opinion, means shit these days.” Dominic’s voice has slowly started to elevate in both volume and anger. Neither man had realised just how loud the conversation had become. “I need you to promise me something,” Dominic says in Matthew’s ear.
“What is it?” Matthew prompts.
“Dolores might have asked you to do a mission for her, but I need you to do something for me,” he scowls. “If you notice anything suspicious about her, I need you to let me know.”
“But how will I find you?” Matthew rolls his eyes. “It’s taken us days to get here and…”
“What’s the commotion here?” a female voice enquires through the fog. Two more shadowy figures begin to progress towards the reunited friends, each of whom look in their direction. Dominic quickly turns to Matthew.
“Promise me,” he says forcefully.
“Okay, I promise!” Matt gasps as the two figures come to a stop a few feet away from them. The Dillinger siblings stare at their unwelcome guests. Phinehas recognises Matthew almost instantly.
“Oh,” Phinehas grunts with distain. “You again. What a surprise,” he remarks, unenthused.
“Have we met?” Matthew squints, trying to figure out exactly where he has seen this man before. To be sure, they had met during their last visit to Hangtown. Their recollection of events had eluded them from the moment they had left; another parlour trick of the vicinity in which they find themselves. Those who happen upon Hangtown by pure chance have a tendency to lose their memories. Could this be the basis of Dolores’ insistence that he capture this experience on film? To document their encounters?
“Forgive him,” Dominic vouches for Matthew. “He’s a close friend of mine. He is here alongside Dolores Aurelian and Marcus Marx.”
“Where are they now?” Phinehas immediately says with a stern look on his face.
“I think they went to find a bathroom,” Matthew lies in response. It appears to be unconvincing to Phinehas and Ruth. “They’ve been gone around ten minutes or so.”
“Eleven minutes and thirty two seconds,” Dominic corrects.
“She is certainly taking her time,” Phinehas’ remark is laced with askance. “I think you should go and check on her,” he says to Ruth, who needs no further incentive. Ruth swiftly turns on her heel and walks towards the buildings, making haste. However, she takes no more than ten steps before the suspected missing person is seen walking slowly back towards them. She is hunched over somewhat, clenching at her chest with an almost pained expression on her face.
“Have you injured yourself?” Ruth asks with a noticeable lack of sympathy. “Let me help you,” she says, stretching out a hand. Her expression changes to one of pure disgust as Dolores flails one arm to swipe at Ruth’s. Dillinger jerks her hand backward before any contact can be made, judgementally staring a hole through Dolores.
“I’m fine,” Dolores grunts, hunching herself over even more as she walks directly past Ruth and Phinehas. “I just need some rest. And I dare say that I’m not going to be welcomed into any household here. I think it is high time that we take our leave,” Dolores directs her initiative to Matthew and Marx. They look at her, bewildered by the timeliness of her comment.
“But we’ve only just arrived!” Matthew protests. “I haven’t even had a chance to properly talk to Dominic.” Aurelian dismisses his comment with a stern glare as she continues to shuffle her way past Dominic.
“Horacio sends his regards,” Dolores tells a little white lie to Dominic. “It would be good of you to make contact in the not-too-distant future. He worries, you know.”
“You can tell him that I will meet him in the next few days,” Dominic states, catching the interest of Phinehas and Ruth.
“Would you care to be a little bit more specific?” Dolores enquires, prompting Dominic for elaboration.
“No,” comes to bluntest of responses. “When I feel like it,” he changes his answer with equal inscrutability.
“Very well,” Dolores responds. “For now, we will bid you farewell.” With that, she tries to carry herself as fast as she believably can into the fog with Marx directly behind her, as if shielding her from view Matthew trails behind, apparently saying his own goodbyes to his good friend.
The woodland seemed ominously quiet. They paused, now that even the sound of their own footfalls was silent, all that could be heard was the susurration of the leaves in the gusty wind. Looking up, they were transfixed by the myriad of fluttering leaves that danced in the high boughs, making a living roof above them. They were calmed, almost hypnotised, but the longer they stared the more the leaves looked like eyes staring back down at them and the boughs seemed to draw closer, the fog thickening once again blocked the sunlight as if a cage was forming around them. Once at a safe distance, Dolores pulls Matthew and Marx to one side.
“Is the camera still working?” Dolores asks. Matthew reaches for it, before he suddenly freezes. Only now does he realise the graveness of his error. He had filmed everything that Dominic had ranted about the lack of trust in Dolores. How on earth was he meant to remove the digital recording without Dolores noticing. He prayed that there was still life in the camera so that he might be able to tamper with the footage.
“It’s dead,” Matthew sweats. Dolores snatches it out of his hands before he has a chance to try and rectify the dilemma. Not saying anything else, he nervously walks on ahead.
“What’s with him?” Marx frowns.
“Never mind that. Here,” Dolores states to Marx, pulling her arms out of her cloak to reveal a large object in her hand; a book as thick as a vintage telephone directory, yet as ancient looking as the first Holy Bible ever published. “We need to take this back to Horacio tout suite. It is imperative that this reaches him at the earliest possible opportunity.” Marx gazes at the cover of the book; decaying black leather that is scuffed and torn in various places across the slab of cowhide. His eyes widen upon noticing the insignia upon the cover…
“Is this…” Marx stammers, “…The Book Of The Black Hand!?”
“Keep your voice down!” Dolores hushes Marx quickly. “I doubt we have much time before The Dillingers realise that the book is in our possession. You go on ahead. They will suspect me the most, so I will fall back to ensure that, if they happen to catch up to us, you can make good your escape. Go now.” Marx needs no further incentive. He increases his pace in order to catch up to Matthew. Dolores looks back over her shoulder. She cannot see anything through the thick fog. Seeing that Marx has disappeared deeper into the mist, she reaches into her pocket one more time, randomly pulling out two of her Tarot cards.
She lets out a smile. This one is not cheerful or full of joy. But instead, it is one of pure cunning.
“The Seven of Swords and The Seven of Pentacles,” Dolores hums to herself before cracking a grin that is almost as sly as those bared in the past by both Dominic and Horacio. “How very… very apt.”
